His eyes, from looking at the passing iron bars <br />have tired and no images will hold <br />he feels as if there were a thousand bars <br />albeit behind them no reality at all. <br /> <br />The supple grace of lightly treading steps <br />endless gyrations of the smallest kind <br />a dance of strength encircling a core <br />which holds, subdued and numb a mighty will. <br /> <br />Brief moments when the pupil's curtains slide <br />an image passes, silently, inside <br />goes through the quiet of the body's lissome limbs <br />and finds its final rest inside the creature's heart.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/im-jardin-des-plantes-paris-rilke-translation/
